


Long-Term Purchase

by BalefireFlatlands



Category: Mad Max (Video Game 2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2019-09-14 10:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16911084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalefireFlatlands/pseuds/BalefireFlatlands
Summary: The Outcrier needs a new boy toy, and buys one that ends up being worth more than expected.





	Long-Term Purchase

“Hey boss. Got one for ya.”

The man reclining in the chair cocked one eye open to look over at the interrupter who dared to intrude on his perch. A Thrall Rustler; the Wasteland’s slavers. Men who found people to sell to other people, no questions asked. And in a world where people were scarce, their bodies were worth hunting. Slaves were a pricey commodity, especially if you weren’t looking for brute labor, but for something to satiate lust with. The Wasteland was full of people dirty and disgusting and diseased. Some so sick they could barely function, others so deformed they were hard to look at. Finding someone semi-healthy and also easily caught was a chore. And the results could cost more than most could afford.

Fortunately for Gastown’s Outcrier, money wasn’t a problem. He could pay handsomely for good slaves, for those worth bedding for a while, and then throw them away when he was done with them as he saw fit. Sometimes people willingly came to sleep with him, trying to curry his favor or hoping he’d share some of his vast wealth with them. He was more than willing to fuck them, but anything beyond that was not only wishful thinking, it could be a death sentence for those stupid enough to try to extort him. Buying slaves from the Thrall Rustlers was easier all around. Sure it cost him a pretty penny, but no one cared what he did with his slaves when he was done with them. And his desires and whims were fickle.

Taking a cigar from his mouth he leaned forward, not getting up until he got confirmation this was worth his while, “This had better not be another half dead refugee from the Citadel.” He hated War Boys. They were frothing crazy and most of them never stopped yelling and he had to beat them senseless to force them to submit.

What was visible of the slaver’s face under the fabric he kept wrapped around him formed into a grin, “Oh you’re going to like this one boss. Promise.”

The Outcrier grumbled, getting up out of his chair and heading down the metal staircase, “I’d better.”

The slaver’s crew had someone standing between them, a leather leash hung from a collar around his neck and his hands were bound in front of him. Well, he wasn’t in a cage, so that was a start at least. The Outcrier stopped a few feet in front of him, chewing on the end of his cigar as he surveyed the slave. He liked them small and he liked them young. So far so good.

“A junkie?” The Outcrier snorted, eyeing the deep black stains that went well over the man’s elbows. The slavers had cleaned him up, shaved his head and body bare, but the Outcrier knew enough about fumeheads to know those stains were permanent. Gastown was full of people who were marked the same way, a by-product of sorting through sludge to get high. It was across his chest too. Fumeheads tended to be panicky, paranoid things who got all twitchy when touched and babbled nonsense. The Outcrier was ready to leave, he’d had more than enough of that.

“Sure, but you haven’t seen the best part yet.” The lead rustler shoved the prisoner forward. The man stumbled, catching himself before he fell, and finally looked up.

The Outcrier couldn’t contain his surprise, and the slavers shared a knowing look between them, mentally doubling the already outrageous price they were charging.

He chuckled low in his throat, roughly grabbing the side of the younger man’s face and tilting it up to him so he could look at those eyes. Colorless. Deep-set in darkened sockets. They were truly striking and for a moment the Outcrier couldn’t look away.

He came back to himself, turning the man’s face to the side so he could judge his profile and then stepping back so he could walk around him completely. The slave was wearing only a rough loincloth made of scraps, offering the Outcrier a fine view of his potential purchase. He was almost too skinny, nearly skeletal. But that could be easily remedied.

With a huff he continued his survey, he was getting ahead of himself. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to buy .. Oh who was he kidding. He absolutely wanted to pound into this slave while looking at those eyes. This was more for show so the rustlers wouldn’t try to scalp him too terribly for being eager.

He wasn’t just small, which the Outcrier preferred, he was bordering on fragile. The larger man could break him like a rusted out pipe. If he wanted to, he could absolutely destroy this little fumehead, break him beyond repair, dominate him completely. Those eyes though…

Finally the Outcrier nodded, “He’ll do.” Normally slaves tried to bite him, or tried to run away, or cried. This one just stood there passively, watching him. He had to be drugged. “What did you give him?”

“Nothing. He’s still coming off from when we found him in the lower cesspit yesterday.”

The Outcrier shook his head, he must have been passed out completely if this is what he was like the next day. Experimentally he tugged on the leash connected to his neck and was rewarded when the slave shambled after him. “Yeah. He’ll do.” He nodded to the slavers who dispersed before they broke out into grins. It was going to be a good payday for them.

As for the Outcrier, he led his new purchase up the metal stairs and down a hallway to a room beyond, sliding the heavy metal door shut behind him. He didn’t waste any time, pulling the loincloth off his purchase so he could see him fully. The slave backed away slightly, eyes darting around at his new surroundings before settling on the Outcrier who was watching him with undisguised lust.

He was so passive. The Outcrier chuckled, enjoying the change from the norm. Maybe this one wouldn’t even scream or try to attack him. Actually, maybe the Outcrier could help with that. He went to a corner of the room, rummaging around the pile of various crap he kept around before finding a small metal canister, red with a thick black rubber stopper. He placed it on a shelf where his new pet could see it. He didn’t normally offer anything in return for compliance, but he was willing to try it, if only for the power he felt while in full control of the situation.

It worked almost instantly. The fumehead’s eyes went wide and he took a step closer, turning a look of absolute desire on the Outcrier.

The Outcrier’s cock hardened immediately, constrained by his pants. No one ever looked at him like that. And while the look was for the canister of pure fume behind him and not for the Outcrier, the result was the same. Oh he was going to enjoy taunting this one; addicted beyond belief and had probably only had the good stuff a handful of times.

“You got a name?” Not that it really mattered, the Outcrier wasn’t planning on using it. He pulled his shirt off, then his goggles, before stripping down completely.

The slave looked away, opened his mouth to respond, then looked confused and shook his head.

The Outcrier cracked a grin. “Too high to remember?” From the guy’s expression he figured he wasn’t far off the mark. He settled down on the edge of the bed, grabbing the leash and yanking the other man down to his knees in front of him. The slave dropped hard, wincing as his knees hit the metal grate floor of the Outcrier’s room. “You’re mine now, so I’ll call you whatever I like.” He pulled the cigar out of his mouth, dropping it onto the floor without looking and grabbed his slave’s chin so he could twist his head up, studying him. “Yeah. Might even keep you long enough to name you. I can give you Food. Water,” He chuckled, running his fingers along the man’s blackened jaw. “Fume. I have access to anything I want.”

A smirk touched his lips as he watched his little fumehead perk up at the mention of unlimited fume. “Provided I’m feeling generous. But my generosity needs to be earned.”

The slave understood immediately, licking his lips and settling between the Outcrier’s legs. Well that was a little unexpected, he wasn’t used to having a purchase be willing, he normally had to tie them up, even with the promise of food and shelter. Slightly suspicious he pulled the slave’s head back so he could stare down at him. “You bite me and you will regret the day you were spat out of your mother’s legs. Understand?”

He was rewarded by watching those eyes go wide, then the younger man nodded, looking frightened for the first time. That was better. He held the leash tight in his hand as his slave inched forward, licking him from base to tip before opening his mouth to engulf him. He wasn’t exceptionally skilled, but he could be trained, the Outcrier would see to it. Roughly grabbing the collar around his neck he guided him where he wanted him and then pulled him far forward, all the way down to the base of his dick.

The Outcrier was taking a chance that he would bite him out of surprise as he choked, but better start training that gag reflex out of him now. The fumehead choked and sputtered, drooling out the side of his mouth as he tried to pull back, but he didn’t once bite.

An excellent start already.

He pulled him off, debating how he wanted to take him. Other than as soon as possible. “Get up here. On your back.” He wanted to be able to look at those eyes as he slammed into him. Twisting his bound wrists around so he could wipe his mouth, the slave gathered his feet beneath him and climbed onto the bed. He’d rolled over onto his back before he sat back up, bouncing slightly and looking down at the blanket he was laying on in surprise. Obviously he’d never been on a soft mattress before and his reaction was amusing enough that the Outcrier didn’t smack him down onto the bed.

Instead he grabbed a jar off a small table by his bed, a clearish goopy substance inside. It was amazing the things you could get when you were rich and lived in a place making petroleum products. His slave was already settled in on his back, bound hands against his chest. Was he really this submissive? Was he going to lay there and take whatever the Outcrier did to him with only the vague promise of food and fume? Maybe someone else had broken his spirit completely. Maybe he was so high he didn’t even really realize what was happening. Whatever the reason, the Outcrier was going to take advantage of it.

He set the jar on his captive’s stomach, leaning up to take his manacled hands and pull them over his head, clipping them to a chain already set in a post in the wall. He had matching sets of shackles at the corners of the bed too, but if he could get away with not tying his legs flat to the bed that would be preferable. That usually worked better if they were on their stomach anyway, and the Outcrier definitely wanted to be able to look at him as he claimed him. Opening the jar he coated his dick with the gel, smearing some on his fingers as he situated himself between the fumehead’s already spread legs.

The Outcrier cared only about his own pleasure, he didn’t give a fuck if the man beneath him was in pain, or not ready, or didn’t want something. None of that was important. Which is why he shoved one of his fingers in his slave’s ass with no warning, startling a yelp out of him as he winced and tried to pull away. He roughly held him down, not stopping his assault for a moment, quickly adding a second finger, stretching him rather than trying to pleasure him.

The man below him squirmed, clearly not enjoying this, but he hadn’t tried to kick him off or do much other than grunt and try and pull away. He was far too weak to be able to fend off the much larger Outcrier, but so far he hadn’t even tried. That kind of power was intoxicating.

Normally he would have just started fucking him immediately, but he pushed in a third finger to stretch him even further. The fumehead hissed in pain, arching up and digging his heels into the bed to try and get away but the Outcrier didn’t let up. He was so small, so tight, it would have been so easy to break him, but the Outcrier wanted to fuck him repeatedly. He needed to keep him intact. For now.

Pulling his fingers free he smirked at the panting, pained gasps emerging from the man below him. If he thought that was bad, he was in for a big surprise as the Outcrier guided his cock against his entrance. The fumehead screamed as the Outcrier shoved into him harshly, slamming in up to the hilt. He ignored the fact that the younger man was struggling in earnest now, trying to kick him off and rubbing his wrists raw against the manacles. It was barely an inconvenience to the larger man, as the slave was far too frail to be able to shove him off or to get away.

As the Outcrier started to thrust, his slave fixed him with an accusatory look, begging and full of pain. The Outcrier was used to looks like that, but coupled with those clear eyes he actually hesitated. With a grunt he pulled out, letting the fumehead sigh in relief and squirm. Panting and gasping the junkie once again saw his prize, that canister sitting on the shelf. He swallowed hard; he wanted it. Wanted it badly.

To the Outcrier’s surprise the smaller man shifted around on the bed, wrapping his legs around larger man’s waist to pull him back. He’d never seen anyone addicted so badly before, this was almost life and death to this little junkie. “You want that hit don’t you?”

He leaned forward, lightly trailing his fingers along the man’s side, feeling his muscles twitch beneath his hands. The Fumehead closed his eyes and leaned into the caress. No one ever touched him unless they were attacking him, and this kind of attention felt remarkably pleasant, even with the pain radiating from his lower half. The Outcrier continued his exploratory stroking, brushing his hands down his abs and across his thighs. He rubbed circles into his hips as he guided himself back in, fingers digging into the globes of his ass to keep him in place. Not gently, nothing about the Outcrier was gentle, but he worked himself in a little slower, trying to not tear the smaller man apart with his dick.

It worked. The junkie made a few grunting sounds of pain, but he wasn’t screaming anymore, and he wasn’t trying to get away, and when the Outcrier shifted position to aim at his prostate he was rewarded with a shuddering moan. Oh he could get used to this. Keep him fed, keep him high, keep him dependent and the Outcrier could use him however he wanted. He rode him into a moaning, squirming mess, but he wasn’t going to let him orgasm. Not this time. Keep him wanting more too.

The Outcrier pounded into him hard, finishing himself off silently, filling the smaller man with his seed. When he pulled out it dribbled all over the mattress and the junkies’ legs. He smiled as he was fixed with another look and a disgruntled sound as the junkie shifted around to try and get some release from his rock hard cock.

“Maybe if you get good at being my little whore, I’ll let you finish.” The Outcrier climbed off the bed, cleaning himself off and grabbing the canister from the shelf. The fumehead cursed, pulling himself up into an awkward sitting position with his wrists still tied down to the bed. It was the first time the Outcrier had heard him speak and even his voice was submissive, deeper than expected but breathy, as if he had forgotten how to talk for a long while. The canister got his full attention though and he sat up straighter, watching the Outcrier.

“I’m gonna untie you now, because I don’t want this shit on my mattress.” He put the canister and a rag on a table near the bed. “You may be thinking of running off, but if you want more of this, I wouldn’t recommend it.” His tone was menacing, that wasn’t a recommendation it was an order, and it had better be obeyed or there was going to be hell to pay. Not that a fragile, naked, fumehead running around Gastown would stand a chance of survival anyway. Only the Outcrier could guarantee his safety now, and his supply.

The straps were undone from the junkies’ wrists, and he immediately crawled off the bed to get his fix. Instead of holding the rag up to his mouth to inhale it he tied it around his face so he could have a constant supply. Oh he had it bad. All the better for the Outcrier to take advantage of. Retrieving another cigar he lit it while watching the smaller man slump to the ground, his eyes rolling back into his head as he breathed deep.

Keeping him for a few weeks was a given. But what could he learn in a few months? Could he be trained into the perfect little bed warmer? The Outcrier’s cock gave a twinge of approval as he thought about the possibilities. He’d never considered anything long term before, but this one seemed … different. So complacent. So needy. He was passed out now, back slumped against a generator that the Outcrier used in his show, leash still hanging from his neck. Clearly he wasn’t going anywhere.

First things first, he’d have to come up with a name for him.


End file.
